The Eye of the Beholder
by Kay the Cricketed
Summary: [SPOILERS for End of Series; RoyEd implications] A "What If...?" sort of idea. Sometimes Roy sees things that couldn't possibly be there.


_In the Eye of the Beholder_

By Kay

Disclaimer: I take no responsibility over what FMA does… though I wistfully dream about doing so.

Author's Notes: Episode 51 SPOILERS—perhaps a little R/E hinting, but nothing serious. This is all pure speculation and "what if," actually. Just sort of, what if there are mirror images beyond the Gate, and if Roy's missing eye could see…? But no, it's mostly bullshit. Go figure. Sigh.

Enjoy. hugs everyone

* * *

It's hard to see through one eye.

The world is exactly the same; he knows that, can feel the familiar contours of his apartment with his fingers, the old curve of his favorite coffee mug, unchanged by time. The line to his jaw is as stubborn and rigid as always, still clenched from a past of too many close calls and bitter disappointments, enough guilt to freeze it in that eternal position of grim expression. His hands can space the end of the kitchen counter to the sink in three spans, and all this is exactly as it was, as it should be.

Except now he sees it through one eye.

Depth perception—when Roy first awoke from that shadowed, fiery night at Bradley's mansion, he couldn't grasp it. The distances were the same, but they looked all wrong. He stumbled into corners and doorways that he once knew by heart. His face seemed to shift in the mirror when he was staring at it; it refused to smile, and when he did, it looked all wrong. The newfound peace he'd gained was more than enough to make up for these disturbing moments, but he still missed being able to automatically _look_ and _do_, instead of looking carefully and compensating for the new absence of his eye.

Now he is getting used to it. But it's hard, still, seeing through one eye. The gaping mess behind the patch on the other side of his face is still raw—it burns and sends tiny shots of numbed pain into his brain, bleeding neurons and ruined veins. He hasn't let anyone see it yet. Not even Hawkeye, and she never asks, just looks at him for a long time and sighs, and turns away, and it looks all wrong from this new, limited angle.

And sometimes he sees things out of it. He shouldn't; it's damaged beyond repair. He will never use it again. Perhaps in time he can seek a replacement—a glass orb, perhaps, to lesson the fear in someone's eyes should they ever see him without his bandages or patches. But he can't make himself think of it now. He doesn't want to imagine the feeling of cold glass shaking slightly in that empty, gaping hole in his head, knowing it will do nothing for him except remind him of what he'd lost.

He learns to move quickly by memory and automatic knowledge—makes as many motions as possible in his home, until it's impossible to misjudge a length or run into something by accident, because he's imposed it upon his brain, every measurement and movement burned into autopilot. He'll move to the street next, and then perhaps the market. And then perhaps...

Well, he doesn't know anymore. There's no where else to go.

And that's strange for him. Sometimes he sits in his living room and thinks about it, staring blankly off to his right side, thinking about things like _it's over_, _there's nothing else to do_, and _my mission and dream has been accomplished_. And then he wonders what he will do tomorrow morning, or the one after that, and he doesn't know. He doesn't know, and he feels helpless and sees this gaping valley of his life in front of him, empty and endless, of mornings waking up and fumbling for his coffee and toast, and cleaning up the jelly he accidentally left smeared on the counter, and talking to Hawkeye about how things are going, and _Would you like to come to the market today?_, and knowing he's not good enough for her, never was, but nodding anyway, quietly, because otherwise he would be sitting in his living room all day and thinking about it, about things like _it's over_, _there's nothing else to do_, and _my mission and dream has been accomplished_.

He doesn't know if he can do that.

Sometimes it's strange, though. Sometimes he sees things out of his left eye—things that should be killed by its ruin and disrepair, if not by the black fabric of the patch. Things that aren't there, that his right eye doesn't catch, that he shouldn't be seeing at all. Sometimes flashes of light. Brilliance. The hot sun of a sandless country.

Sometimes he sees Edward Elric.

Flashes of golden eyes turning towards his, surprised, and it's like he can only see this left angle, again, and sometimes the glimmer of metal. The harsh red of an apple. Lips moving, saying something, but he can never hear it. Smiles. Frowns. Children playing in a street full of vendors' carts, weaving around the square and laughing soundlessly, deathly silent in their joy.

The spread of a blue sky.

And sometimes he thinks he sees Maes Hughes, but then again, he'd been "seeing" him long before he lost his eye. Been glancing around to suddenly see a single second of green eyes dancing behind glasses, or the glare of white teeth caught in a grin. A wave of a hand. A pause in a step.

Sometimes he looks into the mirror and sees himself, haggard and recovering from wounds on his right side. Pallid face and black eye drilling a hole into the glass. And on the left side is a Roy Mustang who is smiling, in this world of streets full of children and Edward Elric passing by every morning, who watches and revels in seeing this left angle, in a life where there is no blood or death or helpless days wondering what to do, but instead spends his mornings loading apple carts and taking tips from pretty girls, grinning with charm and tipping a roughly-sewn hat, who watches this blonde man with a slight limp scowl down at merchandise every day in the square, and wonders _Who is he?_, but never approaches, but keeps on doing his good, clean work, with good, clean hands, that have never worn gloves but bear the calluses of hours of labor.

Roy knows he shouldn't be able to see this. But he is fascinated. Confused, but fascinated. Enthralled. Engrossed.

He sees this world with one eye and thinks, _What do I do now?_, and the other world with the other eye and thinks, _'There is hope. _

There is hope, and now I wait.'

He doesn't know what he is waiting for—perhaps to turn around one morning and see that the two worlds have become one, with an apple in his hand and standing outside on his porch, smiling down at Edward Elric who comes up his pathway.

_The End_


End file.
